Thomas Boyd, The OregonianThe bay front in winter quiets down, the older Newport emerges and fisherman, such as these on the stern of the Lady Law, return to their dock.

NEWPORT -- It's a drizzly off-season Sunday. The streets are deserted, parking lots empty and on the beach, it's just wind, sand and the sea. Then you turn off U.S. 101, drop down the curving side street and suddenly the world is alive.

Here on the bay front, fishing vessels bob on the water, sea lions bark in raucous song and the salty bouquet of fish, diesel and decay scents the damp air. No one, not the man and his dog, not the family buying fresh crabs, not the kids bounding into the arcade, cares that at any moment it is likely to pour.

On this day, I will meet a poet musician who studied with Allen Ginsberg, a woman from the Far East who finds fascination in a candy shop, and a retired couple from Utah who think paradise is their new address on the hill. There's the century-old bar, handcrafted art and junky souvenirs. Processing-plant forklifts vie with traffic for a share of the road, even as the fishing vessels motor for the Yaquina Bay bar and pickups trail crab pots toward the port.

It's all here -- the grit, the grind, the clatter, the crowds -- the Oregon coast at its authentic best.

Up and down Oregon, the beach and communities along it define the state, offering glimpses of history and reflecting the enduring lure of the ocean. But nowhere does the past collide with the present as it does here on the bay.

The land along the bay was just one speck of wilderness in the 1.3 million acres that was the Coast Reservation 150 years ago. Stretching from Tillamook to the Umpqua River, the land was considered too isolated, too untamed to be of any good to white settlers, so the government transplanted some 4,000 Native Americans from dozens of tribes, including the Rogue River, Umpqua, Chasta, Tututni and Modoc.

They found a place largely uninhabited, save for members of the Alsea, Yacona and the Siletz Band of the Tillamook tribes. There were no roads, and a large fire in the 1840s had left much of the forest burned.

But settlers soon had cause to reconsider when, in about 1860, word spread of tasty, abundant oysters in beds just east of Yaquina Bay. Crews from San Francisco arrived to reap the bounty, and suddenly this wasteland flourished. It wasn't all good. One captain refused to pay the Native Americans for the shellfish, setting off the "oyster wars," largely threats and grumbling. After a decade, overharvesting depleted the shellfish that reportedly graced menus at New York's Waldorf-Astoria Hotel.

Still, the bay front grew. In 1866, Sam Case, a soldier on the reservation, claimed 160 acres at the entrance of the Yaquina Bay and by July 4 opened the first hotel, the Ocean House. "The History of Benton County 1885" describes Newport as "a town of 250, two hotels, the Ocean House and Bay View, four general stores, one hardware store, a newspaper, meat market, restaurant, brewery, two barbershops and three public halls." Crowds of visitors rode the train to Yaquina City, then boarded the steamer Newport for the ride downriver to the bay.

But by the late 1920s, the new U.S. 101 had drawn businesses from the bay front to the town center, and also signaled the end of an era when visitors came and stayed for weeks. With WWII came gas rationing. There were blackouts and people feared the Japanese awaited off the coast. "During the '30s and '40s, it was pretty lonely place," says Jody Weeber, archivist for the Oregon Coast History Center. "But it's always bounced back. Buildings change and owners change, but there is always the same kind of character."

On any given day, you can usually find at least one boat offering something fresh from the sea, and on this Sunday that's the Chelsea Rose, a 101-year-old boat docked permanently at Port Dock 3. Access is over a wood dock, coated and slick with green, then down a metal ramp to the water.

Live Dungie crabs soak in a bubbling tank on the dock, drawing a parade of people with eager expressions, happy to exchange the $6 per pound for a paper bag containing dinner.

Jaret Washburn, 22, has worked the Chelsea Rose for eight years. Depending on the season, he also sells tuna, ling and black cod. "It is year round," says Washburn. "Sometimes, we'll get them lined up all the way up the dock. Even in the rain, people still come. That is part of the experience for them, I guess."

A few blocks south, a crowd lines the rail at Port Dock One, peering down at the sea lions snoozing on the floating docks dubbed Bachelor Row. "Every once in awhile, this one talks in his sleep," one man explains. "And this one here is standing guard." Next to him, a woman carries on a conversation with a sea lion making a racket. No one seems to care that they are adults, conversing with animals in broad daylight.

Back on Bay Boulevard, the Barge Inn Tavern, in business since 1935, is empty save for a table of regulars and man on a laptop by the window. I take a seat at the old gray Formica bar and order a cheap white wine from 24-year-old barmaid Danielle Loper, who confesses, "I have pretty much lived within an eight-mile radius all my life."

The tavern offers 10 beers on tap, two reds, one pink and a white wine, and a menu of burgers, hot dogs and potato salad. When women weren't allowed in here, "a trough ran by the bar and out into the street for men to relieve themselves," Loper says, pointing to a place below my feet.

Down the street, signs on the Cat House promise going-out-of-business bargains as the store inches toward its final day. Owner Kirk Mosman opened the gift shop for cat lovers 13 years ago, and is ready for a slower life. Neighboring storefronts showcase fine art and dazzling handcrafted jewelry, but the window attracting the crowd is that of the Newport Candy Shoppe, where a vintage machine rolls, cuts and wraps purple taffy, spitting the white coated nuggets in a growing pile.

"Wow, that's how they make it," says Japanese visitor Naoko Rude, eyes wide.

About half a block away, past the signs offering beads, tie dye, local seafood, psychic readings and hemp, comes the faint sound of loud music, growing louder with each step. The door is open, and few pass without peering inside the 100-year-old bar, dark and crowded, the Bay Haven Inn.

On the walls, faded black and white photos compete with stuffed animal heads, model ships, dusty glass floats and signs advising No Credit Cards and No Hard Liquor. On stage, a band of guys, mostly balding, bearded and gray, do a half decent job of Charlie Daniel's "Fire on the Mountain." The jam session happens every Sunday afternoon, starting around 2. Today, the players include Jack Pine, 65, on guitar, who tells me he studied with Ginsberg at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics; the ponytailed, 78-year-old Willie Strong, playing bongos here since 1969; and Michael Paul, 48,who opened for Sheryl Crow in the '90s.

"Nice to see you all on Sunday, God Bless America," Pine calls to the crowd.

Kathy and John Burchill applaud from their table front and center, and offer me a chair. The two, formerly of Utah, moved to a house uphill from the bay front last summer after discovering Newport on a drive down the coast. They are regulars now. "We really love this place," says John. "It's a working port and a tourist port. And Sunday is the day to be here."

Outside, guitarist Jim "Swede" Sweden cools off under gray skies.

I thank him for the music.

"Come see us some weekend," he says. "On any Friday or Saturday night, there is an 85 percent chance of listening to some real swell music."